Making young white women swoon

by Regis Boff

Our music was round not square.
Records had grooves like the pain irrigated wrinkles of old faces.
We held the music with splayed fingers and open palms.
We could hear dirty fingerprints
and the invisible dust we blew off them.
We cleaned​ the needles before injecting them like racehorses​
into their starting slots.
Each of us a cool junkie.
The stylus was pushed forward like a first stepping child.
It rode into the vinyl rivulets making sounds.
Each record came sheathed in an album
that carried messages meant only for us.
We packed them into shelves
like riders on Japanese trains.
We hesitated to loan them.
Old black men with puffed cheeks and big hands were precious to own.
Guys who had funny names like Dizzy, Jelly Roll, and Satchmo.
None of us knew shit about old black men,
but we knew enough,
To understand it made young white women swoon.